


Caffeinated

by Frostfire



Category: Stargate: Atlantis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-04-29
Updated: 2005-04-29
Packaged: 2017-12-23 16:40:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/928751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frostfire/pseuds/Frostfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rodney's addicted and John's a sex object.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Caffeinated

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a fun little piece. Coffee and sex, yay!

Rodney burns his tongue on his first cup of coffee, and the tingly flayed feeling sets in and promises to making eating annoying for the rest of the day. He finishes his powerbar anyway and steps into the lab. “Morning,” he says around an overly-nutritious mouthful. “What’s scheduled to go fatally wrong today?”

Kavanagh, apparently, according to Simpson.

“He won’t eat,” she says. “Says someone’s trying to poison him. Someone not me,” she adds quickly.

Of course. Geniuses, every person on his team, handpicked to go to another galaxy and win retroactive Nobel Prizes, assuming their work is ever declassified. _Geniuses._ And what does he get? Paranoid temper tantrums.

Eventually Kavanagh’s paranoia is traced back to him identifying some sort of barely-toxic substance in the Athosians’ food—of _course_ Kavanagh tests his food before he eats it. Of _course_ —calling some farmer on it, and receiving sarcastic mouthing off that, apparently, led him to believe that even military rations are not safe from—“What’s her name again?”

“Parta,” Simpson supplies, when Kavanagh refuses to answer. “She’s a…very angry person, from what I’ve heard.” She doesn’t even try to hide the smirk.

Rodney rubs his forehead. “Don’t we have people for this?”

 

His second cup of coffee goes nicely with a newly-discovered Mysterious Atlantean Object, found in a room that was, oddly enough, dodecahedronal and bright red. Rodney’s convinced it does something important or dangerous or possibly both, and he’s determined to figure out which before it blows up the city or before someone else manages it. Unfortunately, the object remains mysterious despite Rodney’s and everyone else’s best efforts, and by the time he’s finished the cup, not even imagining Kavanagh fainting from hunger is enough to stave off imminent return to bad mood.

 

His third cup of coffee spills all over him when the assistant with the ridiculous glasses bumps into him. Or maybe he bumps into her. But he’s beginning to be seriously irritated by this point, because Kavanagh’s upgraded himself to _in danger of losing life and limb at the hands of crazy Athosian women_ , Zelenka’s called in sick, the bastard, and Sheppard wandered in a couple minutes earlier, to a) tell him that the mission to find/grow coffee beans was a no-go until they were fully stocked with the basic necessities, and b) accidentally turn the Mysterious Atlantean Object on, thus accomplishing absolutely nothing, because it promptly vanished. Rodney thinks pithy insults in the direction Sheppard was going when he stalked out at Rodney’s command, and sends the assistant with the glasses back to the red dodecahedron to see if the thing showed up in its original spot again. Then he changes his shirt.

His fourth cup of coffee (which is really his third) is gone before he realizes he started drinking it, because the assistant with the glasses—what _is_ her name?—showed up with the thing and Rodney’s starting to think it might be a personal, handheld transporter.

“The trick is figuring out how to make it go anywhere but the room we found it in,” he explains to Sheppard as the assistant with the fluffy blond hair shows up again, red-faced and panting, and drops the thing on the table. “So far everyone’s just had to run back here.”

He’s forgiven John for giving him bad news and making the thing vanish, because the vanishing thing is turning out to be really interesting, and the coffee thing is really Elizabeth’s fault, and something she’ll be paying for as soon as the scientists go into caffeine withdrawal en masse. Also, John’s most likely to be able to make the thing go somewhere other than the red dodecahedronal room four levels down.

John’s surveying the room. “They need the exercise. Can I see it?”

Rodney hands him the thing, which gives off an aura that reminds him uncomfortably of his cat as soon as Sheppard takes hold of it.

“I think it likes me,” says Sheppard after a second.

“Of _course_ it likes you. You are the Angelina Jolie of Atlantean equipment. Doesn’t matter what kind it is, it wants you to touch it.”

Sheppard blinks. “You know, I never thought of it quite like that before…”

“Of course you didn’t. Now think about getting it to show us how it works.”

 

They spend the afternoon trying to get the thing to give up its secrets. Rodney expands further and further on the Angelina Jolie As John Sheppard metaphor as he gets more and more irritated, ending triumphantly with John as slutty rapacious seducer and the maybe-a-transporter as a blushing virgin keeping its legs firmly closed. John tries to ignore him. It very obviously doesn’t work.

When Rodney starts speculating as to the thing’s gender, John grabs his fifth cup of coffee (which is really his fourth). “Okay. You’ve obviously had too much of this. Plus I deserve something for putting up with this all afternoon. So I’m going to take this, and then I’m going to go away. You go watch some porn or something.” And he makes a hasty retreat.

Rodney wastes a couple of seconds riveted in outrage as his coffee, his research tool, and his primary source of amusement all leave the room together. Then he shakes himself out of it and sets off in pursuit, but John has a good head start and Rodney only just manages to see him disappearing into his quarters.

Well, he can fix this. He goes up to the door and thinks, _Open_.

It obeys, which a nice bit of satisfaction to counteract the day of not-work, and then he’s inside looking at John, who’s stretched out on his bed with _War and Peace_ , sipping Rodney’s coffee.

“Give me that.”

John turns a page. “I think I earned this. I spent three hours listening to you compare me to Angelina Jolie.”

“I don’t see why you’re mad,” says Rodney, edging closer and eying the distance to the cup. “She’s the sexiest American woman alive.”

“She’s a _woman_.”

“And now you’re sexist?” Almost there…

“Get away. She’s a sex object.”

“So are you.” Rodney takes the opportunity provided by John’s incredulous stare to lunge for the coffee. There follows a struggle, in which John’s main aim seems to be to keep the book out of range of the coffee, and it all ends up getting spilled on Rodney’s shirt.

He stares down. “That’s the second cup of coffee that’s ended up all over me today.” A pause. “That’s the second cup of coffee that’s been _wasted_ today.”

“That’s what you get for calling me a sex object.”

“Excuse me, Captain Kirk, but do you _know_ how many of the scientists would fight a Wraith bare-handed for a date with you? I’ve been seriously considering catching you with your shirt off so I can take a picture and sell copies.” He thinks about that. For some reason it doesn’t sound quite right.

John is possibly thinking the same thing, because he’s staring at Rodney. “You think I’m a sex object?”

See, that’s why he specifically kept all this in third person. It somehow seems to have backfired. “Well, not me _personally_ , of course, but—”

But John’s pointing at him. “You do. You think I’m a sex object.” And now he looks…seriously freaked out. Great. This is going to do wonders for their working relationship.

“Look, just wait a second—”

“Rodney.” He stops, and there’s the requisite awkward pause before John says, “Go change your shirt.”

He goes.

 

So, all in all, bad day. As he showers the coffee off of him, he hopes Parta really does poison Kavanagh. He needs some kind of satisfaction to make up for…he’s just not going to remember. It’s less painful that way.

 

He’s made himself a mocha with one of the remaining chocolate bars and is drinking it in bed with his laptop when the door slides open.

John. Of course. What a perfect end to a glorious day. He pulls the cup close. At this point, the mocha is the only thing keeping him sane. “This is mine. Go get your own.”

John closes the door and walks forward, slowly. He stops next to Rodney’s bed. “So I asked around.”

“What?” He wants John to go away. He wishes he’d brought the mysterious object back with

him. It takes a while for people to walk back from the red dodecahedronal room.

John shrugs. “Apparently, I am a sex object.”

It’s so, so true. “How nice for you. How about you go away now?”

“I thought…” John pauses.

“ _What_?”

“Well, if I’m a sex object…aren’t there are some perks that go with the job?”

Now he’s getting a headache. And telling himself that he really isn’t hearing what he thinks he’s hearing. “Perks.”

“Yeah.” John scrubs a hand over his hair—and yeah. Hair. Rodney…should not think that it’s cute. Should. Not.

He’s done a really, really good job of repressing this up till now. Dammit.

“I was thinking that maybe…” He’s in civvies, jeans and a t-shirt. Christ. That should not be a turn-on. Although he supposes it’s better than the _uniform_ being a turn-on. And yeah, fine, repression over, embrace your sexuality. He’s so, so easy.

Rodney carefully sets the mocha aside, closes his laptop and puts it on the floor, and sits up. “Maybe?”

John steps forward and kisses him.

After a second, Rodney realizes kind of hazily that the angle’s bad, and pulls John forward onto the bed with him. That works much better until John pulls back a little, licks his lips, and says, “You taste like chocolate.”

“Should I be flattered?”

But John’s leaning forward again, and this is nice, this is good, this is taking his entire bad day and making up for it all plus interest, even the two wasted cups of coffee. Rodney runs his hands down John’s back until he hits the waistband of his jeans—God, his skin’s so _hot_ , burning through the t-shirt—and the jeans are just loose enough for him to slip a hand inside.

Commando. _Jesus._

They’re both hard now, thrusting, while Rodney tries to calculate angles so that his fingers can hit a moving target—it’s hard, hard in more ways than one, hard because he’s hard, and that’s even funnier than the Angelina Jolie thing, but he’s too busy sliding a finger between John’s cheeks to share it.

John shoves his face into Rodney’s neck and groans. Rodney rubs his opening and only just manages not to come right there. “God, you sound so—so—” Everything he wants to say would sound stupid or sappy, and his internal censor’s just barely up to keeping it all back. Instead, he works on slipping the finger inside.

John’s moving his hips with purpose now, which is _oh god so good_ , but it’s also making it really hard to concentrate. John’s also using the position of his face to his advantage and _biting_ , which is just—

“I can’t,” Rodney pants, “I can’t—” and he comes.

When he comes back to earth—to _Atlantis_ , his brain insists, and he tells it to shut up, he doesn’t need it right now—John’s still writhing against him. And despite his total and utter satiation, it still manages to be the hottest thing ever.

“Here, roll over,” Rodney says, and John goes, and then he’s lying on his back with Rodney over him. The jeans don’t take much effort, and then he’s on Rodney’s bed wearing _only a t-shirt_. A t-shirt that’s pushed up to show most of his stomach, and just…wow. Golden skin and dark hair and his hips are still _moving_ , and, “Sex object,” whispers Rodney. His brain has definitely followed orders and gone south for the winter.

He considers his options, until John starts saying, “ _Rodney_ , hurry up, _c’mon_ , Rodney—” and he definitely needs to make a decision so more sex can happen right now. He pulls off his boxers—his very, very gross boxers, by this point—and slides a hand through the sticky wetness on his stomach, then leans forward.

Giving head is one of Rodney’s less-advertised skills, but he’s as good at it as he is at many, many other things. John moans high in his throat and clutches at the sheets as Rodney sucks, taking him in deeper, deeper—and then he slips his finger back to where it was before, and John _whines_.

Sex object. Oh, God.

His first finger slides in easily, come-slicked, just as he presses his thumb behind John’s balls. John makes a noise high in his throat, thrusting into Rodney’s mouth. He pulls back to keep from choking, moves his finger. Slides another one in. John’s making _noise_ , oh God, and if he had a shorter refractory period, this would be going very far, very soon. He sucks harder, and finds John’s prostate, and that’s it.

He swallows, and swallows, and eventually pulls off and out. When he sits up, John’s lying back, boneless.

Rodney stretches out next to him, kisses him.

“Mm,” says John. “I could get used to being a sex object.” He smiles.

“Good.” Rodney runs his hand over John’s stomach. “Never touch a cup of my coffee again.”

John gives a sleepy almost-laugh. “I can see who I’m going to be competing with.”

“Hey,” says Rodney. “Everyone in _Atlantis_ thinks you’re a sex object. I think you win on the competition thing.”

“Go to sleep, Rodney.”

Rodney finds, to his surprise, that despite all five-really-three cups of coffee, plus mocha, he’s doing just that.

 

_End_


End file.
